


it will come back

by ghiblitears



Series: the edge of our hope and the end of our days [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Orphan Keith (Voltron), The Drift (Pacific Rim), also, and they were drift compatible, cameos from other characters - Freeform, established shance with endgame shklance, heed the tags, i mean there is also physical hurt, memory sharing, oh my god they were drift compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 05:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17054381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghiblitears/pseuds/ghiblitears
Summary: To say first Drifts are never perfect would be an understatement -- one that brings itself centrefold to the pilots of Horizon Atlas. Shiro and Lance, experienced Jaeger pilots, have an idea of what to expect. Keith, the newest addition to the Atlas crew, doesn't have that luxury.(Shklance Pacific Rim AU ficlet)





	it will come back

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back in the shklance pacrim au babey!! thanks to the, like, five other people who enjoyed the previous installation lmao  
> This is technically a prequel to 'echoes in my soul' (which was written first in the series), but I feel like you can read them in whatever order you choose. I wrote them out of order, you can read 'em out of order. There are no gods here.  
> enjoy!

The sight of the Jaeger is enough to draw an approving nod out of Shiro and a low, impressed whistle out of Lance. 2500 tons of colossal three-armed Kaiju-fighting robot will do that to even the most experienced pilots with little encouragement, and this Jaeger is no exception; black glossy metal shines with both blue and red accents, oil-slick bright under the Shatterdome’s blinding lights. She’s six stories tall but Shiro wants to believe she could touch the sky if she wanted, reach up and pluck the stars above a more peaceful world. The eyeshield reflects silvery purple across its honeycomb pattern. She stands attentive, waiting, ready to fulfill her purpose.

Well, Shiro doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but every single Jaeger he’s piloted so far has been a lady of war. It’d be the same for him if he piloted anything else — a boat, car, tank, even a spaceship. Sailors historically called their ships ‘she’ to invoke protection; in a lifetime of defending his home from Kaiju attacks he isn’t about to pass up any kind of safeguard, no matter how superstitious. Not many pilots would.

“Now  _this_  is a Jaeger. Almost enough to put Blue in the dust,” Lance comments, mouth quirking up in a handsome grin. He moves in tandem with Shiro, side-by-side in textbook Drift Compatibility. He slides his hand briefly into Shiro’s back pocket and bumps their hips together playfully before returning to his own. When Shiro catches his gaze his eyes shine with excitement — blue eyes that Shiro had fallen in love with the way one dives into the ocean. They’re not usually so affectionate in public, but Shiro likes the quiet reassurance that his partner – Drift and otherwise — is with him every step of the way.

That, and everything is about to change. Maybe Lance just needs some grounding.

“Aw, don’t be mean to Blue. We went through a lot together — you can’t convince me that you don’t miss her.” Shiro says, only half teasing, and doesn’t miss the way Lance’s face softens with nostalgia as he looks back to the war machine.

“I never said I didn't. She's my lady forever,” he replies. “But this is something else.”

They did go through a lot together. Ten active drops together, five solo kills, and a relationship forged and strengthened until it resembled the titanium core of their war machine. Seraphim Blue had been a hell of an opponent, unmatched in strength and steel before the PPDC had decided to take another direction with the Jaeger program, and she’d meant a lot to both him and Lance. Now as humanity slips further down the sliding scale of disaster, there are new paths to take.

Lance jabs a thumb in the Jaeger’s direction. “So, does it have a name? And a third pilot?”

The grin that Shiro gives the war machine is so bright it nearly glints off the shiny metal. “Horizon Atlas,” he says reverently.

It fits, somehow. It teeters on the edge of being too on-the-nose — if they weren’t already holding up the weight of the world on their shoulders, they are now — but he likes it. There isn’t a Jaeger in history without a ridiculous name; probably part of the appeal in humanity embracing giant fighting robots as their saviors is giving them heroic monikers to live up to. Horizon Atlas has a legacy to fulfill as the last three-armed Mark V to come out of the program, and the final pin stuck into the war map once funding had been pulled. A last-minute grab for the PPDC in their dying months, but one that might fix everything.

“As for a third pilot, I think you’ll approve of Allura’s choice,” Shiro says. When Lance fixes him with a raised eyebrow he just smiles back, teasing under the mask of nonchalance.

“You’d better,” a voice says behind them.

On cue, they're interrupted by the arrival of Marshal Allura Khare and a Ranger in tow behind her. Shiro had known who would be piloting Atlas alongside them, but he still can’t quite supress the thrill of excitement that sparks through him at the sight of their new co-pilot. To say he’d been happy with the choice was an understatement; Ranger Keith Himura-Chase (a familiar name, although one Shiro can’t place the origins of) had been the only candidate to match equally with both Lance and Shiro during compatibility tests, surprising everyone. He was a rookie pilot but a natural one – handpicked by the Marshal herself. All that left to be seen is how they all perform in the Jaeger together.

All that, and the added bonus that Keith is easy on the eyes. Dark-hair, shiny violet-grey eyes, toned muscle, that jawline, those  _shoulders_. Even a committed man like Takashi Shirogane could admit that much, especially post-test when Lance had pulled him aside and asked “how about that beautiful, brooding mullet man, huh?”. Drift compatibility isn’t just about chemistry, although no one would ever convince Lance otherwise.

He recalls the intensity of his spar with Keith, the dance-like flow of movement as they’d fought, and looks back to Atlas. He can’t wait to see what their new co-pilot brings to the table.

“Pilots,” Marshal Khare says, and all three automatically snap to attention. Shiro thinks that Allura could appear above his bed and order him to stand, and even in the deepest sleep he’d do it before ever fully waking up. “You’ve all performed superbly in compatibility testing, but this will show us what we need to know for sure. Stay sharp, stay focused, and stay aligned. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you more.”

“You don’t,” Lance, ever-casual, replies, flashing a winning smile in response to Allura’s serious expression.

“Then I am expecting a perfect first drift,  _Ranger_ _Serrano_ ,” she says, although Shiro’s known her long enough to see a sliver of teasing under her tough persona. First drifts are never perfect – she knows it as well as anyone. He knows that the least she hopes for is that the Jaeger will respond without them having to wrestle for control – the machine and each other. Three pilots, three limbs, three Drifts to align. Success or not, it’s going to be a hell of an afternoon. He can already feel the nap he’ll no doubt be needing.

Things happen quickly in testing. Before they can converse any further all three pilots find themselves in the cockpit of Atlas, ready and waiting to connect to the Pons system and tread the neural bridge. The suits they’re given differ from Blue’s shiny cyan-and-white ones; these are matte black, newly-built, devoid of any battle damage or scratches. Their helmets each have a small stripe accenting the crown – blue for Lance, red for Keith, and white for Shiro, the only difference in the otherwise identical suits.

“Hope you don’t mind me taking right!” Lance calls as he approaches the right-hand controls. It’s habit, with how he compensates for Shiro’s missing limb, but it also smooths out the transition to their new three-armed control if he doesn’t have to get used to a new dominant arm. He fiddles with the controls, jittery; it’s their first time connecting to the Pons in months, and while Shiro can keep his nerves easily in check Lance has always been more external about his emotions. Keith steps towards left without hesitation. He’s been standoffish so far, but Shiro can almost feel the way he watches both him and Lance. Those dark eyes have weight to them.

Shiro steps into the centre footholds and allows them to close. The controls are smooth as silk when he takes a few experimental steps. Heavy, too, but that’s to be expected for a Jaeger. Seraphium Blue’s strong limbs have kept him upright for years, but Atlas makes him feel like he could take on the world.

The comms crackle. “ _Horizon Atlas! Pilot-to-pilot protocol in t-minus really soon_ ,” Hunk jokes, voice softened by the mic’s feedback. “ _Neural handshake engaging in five. And can I just say I missed you guys_?”

Shiro smiles. “It’s good to be back,” he says.

“We missed you too, Hunk!” Lance calls, throwing a wave in the general direction of the control room despite their inability to see it. “I’m ready and raring to go. Let’s kick some Kaiju ass.”

“Please wait until you get out of the Shatterdome to start destroying things,” he says playfully.

“ _Rangers._ ” Marshal Khare joins the comms line. “ _Ready yourselves. We’re beginning the Drop sequence in two minutes._ ”

Shiro looks to their newest pilot. It’s hard to tell with Keith’s aloofness, but he thinks he can see cues of apprehension in his form — it’s in the way his hands aren’t quite still at his sides, the way he shifts slightly from one foot to the other, the way he keeps scanning their surroundings as if a crowd is watching him. Being a new pilot about to enter his first Drift with two strangers, Shiro knows where he’s coming from.

“You doing okay, Keith?” he asks, and doesn’t miss the way Keith seems to freeze when he’s addressed. He looks back to Shiro with guarded intensity.

“I’ll be fine,” he says shortly. 

“ _Go for Drop. Pilot-to-pilot protocol in sixty seconds,_ ” Hunk says, tenfold more serious than before.

“Hey, we’ve got you, okay?” Shiro says, quick to reassure, and Keith’s eyes widen slightly. “Let the Drift flow and you won’t have any problems. Don’t hold onto the memories.”

Lance nods. “We've got this.”

“ _Twenty seconds_.”

They drop. Like a stone into a river, they reach the rest of Horizon Atlas. Her head connects to her body and brings a myriad of light to the controls, illuminating the cockpit in a wash of blue and orange.

Shiro closes his eyes and prepares for the connection. It’s been a while since he and Lance have connected to the Pons, but he expects they’ll fall into alignment with practiced ease. They’ve Drifted dozens of times; a new pilot shouldn’t shake up their composition too much.

With seconds on the clock, Shiro reopens his eyes to see Keith still staring at him. Where before his anxiety seemed merely substrate, now fear seems to have taken hold of him, eyes wide and hands clenched in alarm.

“Shiro, I —” he begins, and halts when the lights inside Horizon Atlas flicker to life.

“ _Pilot-to-pilot protocol engaged. Initiating neural handshake_.”

Before Keith can say any more, Shiro falls into the drift as and lets it wash over him like the tide.

***

A dozen images flicker by before Shiro’s eyes.

_He plays on the beach, sand between chubby, tan toddler fingers that don’t belong to him, held with wonder that only childish innocence can keep alive. Mama smiles down at him fondly, brushes strands of brown hair off his sun-kissed forehead as he draws swirls in the damp grit, watches the tide wash them away without a moment’s hesitation_ _—_

_He darts forwards into Meiji Jingu, dodges other visitors to wash his hands in clear, clean, cold water and offer an ema because it feels right, even to a six-year-old who doesn’t quite understand the traditional practices of Shinto. Granddad looks to him with pride when his wish is placed on the shrine, a tablet invoking serenity, joy, peace, peace, peace_ _—_

_Mom’s flight suit is red; Dad’s is the same albeit with none of the violet accents hers has. They hold his hands in theirs and mock stepping together in tandem, the_ _eyeshield_ _of Phoenix Fury gazing out over the interior of Vancouver’s_ _Shatterdome_ _. He steps with them, legs still too short to manage being exactly in tandem with theirs, they laugh and swing him back and forth. They’re the best pilots he knows, the most powerful force to be reckoned with, always on the front lines and always returning to victorious celebration. Someday he’ll be a Jaeger pilot like them_ _—_

_He waits beneath a city of glass, entrenched in fog, nothing on the horizon except the rolling mist of the ocean. It's not Japan, he forgets where he is for a moment (_ _evething_ _seems_ _so damn similar when_ _it's_ _under attack), until a Kaiju breaks the gloom and begins its approach to Seattle. Then he sees the crown-like spikes jutting out of its head, sees the glowing eyes that stare into his very soul, watches claws built like swords cleave a high-rise in half, and knows Imperator, but he also knows how this battle will end and braces for a fight_ _—_

_His fist connects with a sickening crunch, a blow that deals more damage to Cadet Griffin than he’d been expecting, hard enough to make blood start streaming out of his nose. Rage boils beneath his skin, too big to be contained, enmity he wears as plainly as his worn red hoodie. It threatens to overtake him because how dare Griffin say such things, how dare he bring up Phoenix Fury, it must be nice to have an intact family while his own breaks in the name of protecting the world_ _—_

Something shifts in the drift. There’s a moment where Atlas feels like she’s canted to one side, like the cockpit has shifted off of its base. Shiro struggles to stay in control. It’s as though two pairs of hands are dragging at his limbs, pulling him down towards the drop. In a flash he sees Lance stop, frozen in place as he begins down a path that every Drift pilot has been warned to not go down. A rabbit he shouldn’t chase.

_The bright tropical sun tears at his skin the same way the burning remnants of Havana rip at his flesh and leave scars on his arms, legs, back, face (Lance’s skin, he corrects, though they might as well be one in the same by now). The building cracks beneath his feet, a solid foundation shattered effortlessly at the hands of monsters. He scrambles to his feet. His family is below him in the house. They won’t know what’s happening until it’s too late, a fact he realizes with mounting horror as he watches a colossal head break the surface of the Gulf of Mexico. He’ll learn later that Leatherback had decimated Cabo, tore through six cities, and re-entered the water in the gulf to set its sights on Cuba, before_ _it_ _wa_ _s finally taken down by Nightshade Matrix. A sound like thunder crashes against his ears, a cry that makes home in his nightmares screeches as Leatherback (or is it Shinigami? Imperator? Thunderhead?) advances on the city, and he falls, falls, falls, falls, out of the Drift, out of concentration, out of alignment, out of alignment, out of alignment_ _—_

And then, abruptly, Shiro hears something new. Voices, maybe; stark in the silence but impossible to make out, as if he’s underwater. Robotic, echoed, a voice he recognizes but can’t place in the moment.

_Alert. Out of alignment._

Then the earth shakes beneath his feet, rolls like a wave where there should be solid ground, and he realizes something is wrong.

The city is familiar enough, although he’s never visited it himself. Just over the border and boasting a similar aesthetic to his own Seattle, with tall glass buildings and the shiny aftermath of a storm pooled on the blackened concrete. Bright street lamps and signs from nearby buildings reflect neon in the former rain, beacons in the dark of the night. Street signs tell him he’s at the intersection of Granville and Georgia, and a quick turn behind him reveals a teal sign that says VANCOUVER CITY CENTRE, held aloft over a set of stairs that lead down into the subway tunnels.

 _Skytrain_ tunnels, he corrects.

This isn’t his memory, or Lance’s, and the implications make his blood run cold.

“Shiro!” A voice snaps him out of his daze. Then Lance is at his side, close enough to reach out and grab his hand. His eyes are wide behind his visor, fear and recognition wrestling for hope within their depths. “Can you hear me?”

“I’m here,” he chokes, and just the act of speaking is enough to balance him. The memory flickers away for a moment to reveal the cockpit around them, and he has enough awareness to read the words OUT OF ALIGNMENT on the eyeshield. “Lance, I’m here. I’m okay. I’m stabilizing.”

“Keith is out! Way out! I lost control when we started the Drift and when I finally stabilized, he chased the rabbit! I fucked up, Shiro. I fucked up so hard.” Lance’s eyes have turned liquid under his remorse, guilt making its home in them and threatening to spill over with tears. He shudders, and Shiro doesn’t have to be in his head to know he’s thinking of what they saw in the Drift.

Seattle. Cuba. Keith’s own time as a cadet. And now, this.

“It’s okay. We’ll get realigned, and we’ll stop this before we do any damage. Are you with me?”

“We have to help him!”

“I know, Lance,” he says, forcefully calm, and Lance freezes. “We will. We’ll find him, and we’ll bring him back.”

The report on the Vancouver attack had been too clinical to delve into detail, but Shiro knows enough about what happened to draw his own conclusions. Another rolling wave of the concrete draws his attention further down the street, and what breaks through the city skyline terrifies him to his core – primal fear, wherein he is a mouse facing down a panther.

Thunderhead’s roar is devastating even from hundreds of miles away. The ground shakes as though the Kaiju wants to compete with the Cascadia Fault line. It’s a veritable mountain of a monster, destructive enough to be its own force of nature. The Kaiju’s knife-like head sways back and forth as it scans the streets, glowing eyes surveying the city with calamitous intent. It opens its mouth to spit a blast of flame that catches on buildings and spreads to the street below. 

The attack on Vancouver had been a figurehead of war. One of the first Kaiju attacks, and one that had caused the most damage. They say it had burned for nearly seven days after the Kaiju had fallen.

A figure races past them, dark hair whipping in the burning night air as they bolt away from the Kaiju. The figure skids to a stop outside a building and gasps for air, hands braced on their knees. Wide grey eyes stare straight through them without being able to see past the chaos. Firelight dances in their grey depths. The rest of their face is pulled tight with panic, hands clenched at their sides as if steeling for a fight. As if one person on their own could fight a Kaiju singlehandedly.

 _Have to protect them_. Shiro hears the words as clearly as if he had said them.  _Have to protect mom, and dad, and home, can’t let the Kaiju take anyone else_ _—_

“Keith!” Lance cries.

Keith is younger in the memory, a scrawny teen wrapped in a too-loose black windbreaker, hair loose in his face. He stares at the Kaiju with uncomprehending horror, and as he watches Shiro follows his gaze to see something new come into view – something colossal, equally matched with Thunderhead in scale. The Jaeger careens towards Thunderhead until its fist collides with the Kaiju’s armoured head. The crash of red metal against Kaiju bone gives Shiro chills.

Phoenix Fury.

At the sudden recognition, Shiro experiences a mental flood of knowledge about the Jaeger, and it’s hard to tell what’s his own recollection and what isn’t. Mark III, a feat of engineering in the glory days of the Defense Corps, seven drops and five kills. Piloted by Krolia Chase and Heath Himura.

It clicks into place then, the missing link Shiro had been wondering about when he’d met Keith.

Lance follows the train of thought without hesitation – sharing a headspace helps with that – and his expression twists as he takes in the full scope of the situation. He races towards Keith with Shiro close behind.

They skid to a stop in front of Keith. He still doesn’t seem to realize they’re there and continues to stare at Thunderhead at it battles Phoenix Fury. The Kaiju lands a blow on Phoenix’s right arm and staggers her, roars when she retaliates with a punch of her own.

“Snap out of it, Keith!” Lance says, desperate to be heard. “This isn’t happening, it’s a memory!”

Shiro wants badly to reach out and touch; he isn’t sure he can in the mindspace. “Keith,” he says; low, pleading. “Listen to me. Listen to Lance.  _This isn’t real_.” He needs him to hear, because he can already see the path of destruction the battle is heading down and knows it won’t end well. Knows now that Phoenix Fury is a tripwire for Keith, and when it snaps the effects will be devastating.

“Keith, please,” he insists, heart tugging in his chest.

As he speaks he watches Thunderhead draw back with massive strength. It swings forward with sharpened claws and cleaves through half of Phoenix’s eyeshield. Shreds of titanium and glass fall away in an explosion of red and yellow to crash on the street below. They catch in the streetlights like dying fireworks.

“No!” Keith screams. “ _No_!”

Phoenix Fury staggers before Thunderhead moves in for the killing blow. Its razored claws cut cleanly through the Jaeger’s metal skull; the rest of the machinery bursts out of the back, leaving the Jaeger headless. In the brief moment before she falls, the city is eerily quiet.

Then Phoenix Fury hits the ground, dead weight. The shockwave shatters every window on the block, and Shiro watches in horror as one heated shard catches Keith’s face and draws an angry red mark across the pale skin of his cheek. The rest of him takes more lacerations, shredding the windbreaker and the rest of his clothes to rags. He stares back at the chaos with tears streaming down his face, liquid gold in the raging inferno’s light.

Shiro watches him reach into his pocket and draw out a knife between shaking fingers. The weight feels physical in Shiro’s own hands – it may be the only thing he has, the only weapon he can wield in the moment, but it’s all that’s left. If only he had something real to fight with. Keith’s hand tightens around the blade’s handle.

_Protect my family. Protect my home. Protect my Drift partners. Protect them. Protect THEM. PROTECT THEM._

Too late, he realizes Keith’s rage has turned the knife into something else. As his vision flickers back to Atlas he sees the word SWORD light up the cockpit's screen, and not a moment later feels the weight of the Jaeger’s sword being deployed in her colossal left hand. Miles of razor-sharp metal interlock together to form the blade, a resounding series of  _thuds_ that Shiro feels in his whole body.

“Keith,  _no_!” He tries to resist the impulse – they can’t use the sword now, not where there are hundreds of innocent people trapped alongside them. “We’re still in the Shatterdome, we could hurt people!”

Overhead in the memory, a team of fighter jets weave through the blackened sky like birds. They fire on the Kaiju with missiles, ineffective as bottle rockets against Thunderhead’s tough skin.

Keith stares down the Kaiju with fire in his eyes, but just as he takes his first steps towards it the Drift falls around them, coming down like a bucket of water. Shiro manages to stay upright as it releases them, and Lance stumbles out of his controls into his arms. He’s shaking – uncharacteristically frightened, and Shiro holds him tight in the aftermath of the Drift. Someone in the Pons control room must have pulled the plug.

Failure. Their first Drift as a team – complete failure.

“ _Neural bridge disabled. Would you like to try again_?” A cheery, automated voice chirps.

Keith’s face is slack and dazed. He sways as the connection dissolves, and both Shiro and Lance dart forward to catch him as he falls backwards. Shiro takes the brunt of his weight, head supported on his shoulder, while Lance grabs for his helmet and pulls it off. A thin line of blood drips from his nose. In the aftermath of what they saw, the lack of emotion on Keith’s face is terrifying, but once their Drift disappears completely his eyes roll back into his head, and he passes out in Shiro’s arms.

***

Shiro hates having to confront Allura – he doesn’t do it often, but sometimes there are things he feels he has to fight for in the Defense Corps. Unfortunately that means fighting her, and as she stares him down he feels smaller, like a cadet in trouble with his superiors.

“Lance told me it was his fault,” Marshal Khare begins. Her hands are folded on top of the desk, her face a mask of composure. “That he fell out of alignment first.”

Shiro also hates for Lance to be so selfless. “We both did,” he counters. “It’s been too long. We just have to get used to the Drift again —”

“Do not tell me what I know isn’t true, Ranger Shirogane,” she says. “This wouldn’t have happened with you two. It never did in Blue, not even on your first Drift.” She sighs, casting her eyes downwards. “I was too hasty with Keith. I shouldn’t have tried to call him back.”

“You knew?” Shiro asks, a bitter edge to his voice.

“I knew he was a cadet. Trained in the Vancouver Shatterdome eight years ago. An exemplary student, but one that fell out of the our favour before graduation. I tracked him down when they cut funding as a last-ditch effort.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t know his connection to the Phoenix pilots would be that destructive.”

“You can’t fault him for that.”

“No, but I can’t let him Drift again. We’ll find you two another co-pilot.”

“ _No_ ,” he says, far more intensely than expected. Allura flinches. “Give him a chance. You said yourself that he’s the strongest candidate.”

“I was wrong,” she says. Remorse takes hold of her features. “I’m sorry, Shiro. I had high hopes after I saw his scores and how he performed in testing, but he cannot pilot Atlas with you. His control over the neural bridge isn’t stable enough.”

Shiro bristles. “You didn’t even see what happened in there, and you still want to send him packing after one bad Drift? What about what happened after Seattle? How many times was I rejected by the neural bridge until Blue? I was a broken soldier, Allura. Would you have done the same for me?”

The words seem ten times harsher as he speaks them, but they’re true. She knows it too, if the steely glare she gives him is any indication. She takes a long moment before she speaks, inhaling and exhaling slowly before she looks back to him.

“Do not forget what I too have lost, Shiro. Revenge is a festering wound. In the Drift, it will destroy you all.” Her eyes turn stormy. “We can’t afford to take the risk.”

“One more Drift, Allura,” he insists. “One more chance. Let him have that much, at least.”

The moment between when he speaks and when she considers stretches into infinity.

“Fine,” she says shortly. “One more Drift. Show me the truth, Shirogane.”

That’s all he needs. Shiro stands and exits, permission to be dismissed be damned.

***

He finds Lance sitting on a bench outside the infirmary. He looks up at Shiro’s approach, reaches out to take his hand when they’re close enough.

“How is he?” Shiro asks, eyes cast to the closed door.

Lance shakes his head. “No idea. They won’t let me in. They only sent two doctors, though, so it might not be that bad.”

Reliving a nightmarish memory can be, and that’s what has Shiro worried. He sits down on the bench next to Lance and allows his head to drop onto his shoulder. 

“I convinced Allura to let us try again, once he’s better,” he says.

“Good.” Lance nods, and yet the tension doesn’t leave him. Shiro turns slightly to press a kiss to Lance’s temple, a promise more than anything.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

Lance’s watery blue eyes find his. “It was. I thought I had a handle on it. Thought we would Drift like old days. But there was so much anger, and hate, and fear. When I saw Havana, I just — I didn’t know —.”

“Neither of us did.” He leans into Lance and rubs his thumb over his knuckle. A nervous habit.

It’s a long moment before Lance speaks again, his voice much quieter; “I didn’t know he was so hurt.”

“Me either.”

“ _Phoenix Fury_ , Shiro. Everyone knows about Phoenix. It was all we talked about after it happened.”

“I know,” he says. He remembers the incident too, in fragments. That had been after Seattle, after Adam, when Tempest Nyx was still out of commission. He vaguely recalls the intel finding him in a hospital room. The haziness would explain why he hadn’t recognized Keith’s last name off the bat.

Lance mirrors him, leans into him until Shiro is sure his jacket will leave lines in his tan skin. “I don’t want him to hurt. But I don’t want him to go, either.”

“I don’t think he wants to go, either.” Shiro considers what had happened. The Drift had been nightmarish, and Keith’s mind so guarded, but there had been slivers of potential he could see amongst the hurt. “He wanted to protect us. Not just his family.”

“I heard,” he replies. “But he’s scared of letting us in. Because if something happens, that’s just two more people to leave his life.”

And isn’t that what they all want to avoid, in the end.

The open door startles them both out of conversation, and a tired doctor steps out. She spots them waiting and stops, pausing her trajectory long enough for them to grab her attention;

“Is he okay?” Shiro asks.

She nods. “Stable. Starting to wake up.”

“Can we see him?”

The way she looks them over worries him. Something like judgement holds her features. She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t, not so soon. Give him a couple days to breathe.”

Beside him, Lance slumps in disappointment. Shiro nods. “Okay. We’ll come back,” he says.

The walk down the hall and back towards their quarters is excruciating. It’s a trip that usually takes fifteen minutes (he should know; they’ve walked it enough times), but this time it feels as though they’re nearly at a standstill. Lance’s hand never leaves his in the time it takes them to reach their room.

“What if he hates us, Shiro?”

It’s a possibility, albeit one he doesn’t want to believe. He gets the door open and steps inside, seats himself on their bunk and lets the day crest over him. It had been hard, but he wasn’t currently recovering from reliving his most traumatic memory. It’s cruel, the way the Drift pulls up buried thoughts, forces their owners to experience them anew. It could have been Seattle, Cuba, Japan, Arizona. It wasn’t.

The Drift had picked Keith, because his thoughts were too loud to ignore. Vancouver, because it had too many ghosts. An easy target.

“I don’t think he does,” Shiro says cautiously. He stares up into the ceiling like it’ll clear his mind. It doesn’t; just reminds him of where he is. “But if he doesn’t want to stay, we should respect that.”

Lance stands before their desk, stares down the photo wall they’d created over the years. His hand brushes one photograph. Shiro doesn’t have to be connected to him to know what he thinks.

He hopes that Keith will come back, and Shiro does too.

***

Pain stabs through Keith's head and he holds it with a hiss, fingers pressed against his temple like that’ll keep it from seemingly breaking apart.

In cadet training the instructors had talked about the Drift. About how it formed a bridge between minds, a neural connection to take the strain of piloting from one person and shift it into a partnership. About how it was silence in the Drift, nothing but you and your partners thoughts, nothing but memories below the surface and your every action taken in sync.

He thinks of Shiro, and of Lance, and how they moved like they had been in tandem their entire lives. How they’d allowed him into their life, and he’d ruined it at first touch. How they’d welcomed him into the Drift, encouragement prodding gently at his wild own before everything had fallen away into chaos.

Keith didn’t know how to do any of that. He didn’t know how to hold anything except tightly, and how to carry anything except on his own. The doctors had told him he had taken too much of the mental strain when he’d chased the memory – an affliction fixed by sharing the neural load, they’d said. As if it were easy; the Drift had been anything  _but_ silence.

Another stab of pain, another reminder of the mess he’d gotten himself into.

A knock at the door doesn’t do anything to diminish the headache or the scowl he’s sure twists his face. When his visitor steps through the door not a moment later, he’s glad he didn’t relent. Marshal Khare stands at the foot of his bed, jaw set and eyes steely, and Keith wonders if she had made any attempt to look welcoming at all.

“Just tell me to pack my bags,” he says, bitingly harsh despite the rawness in his throat. “I can take it.”

“That isn’t why I’m here, Keith. I have been persuaded to allow you to Drift again, if you wish.”

He folds his arms. The effect is diminished slightly by the fact that he’s sporting a hospital gown and that he doesn’t think he can sit upright for much longer without getting dizzy. “If this is some kind of pity act —”

“There is no pity in wartime. Not here.” Her eyes soften. “Your Drift partners vouched for you. Ranger Shirogane came to me personally while you were unconscious. They want to try again. I told them to show me the truth.”

Keith’s reply dies in his throat and he stares back at her, eyes wide. “What?”

“You heard me. Report to me in two days’ time if you’re up for a second Drift.” And with that she leaves, pivoting on her heel to step through the door and out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @ babykeithsmullet or on twitter @ espressopidge


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